


All My Heroes

by Zelos



Series: Humans Underneath [1]
Category: Captain America (2011), Incredible Hulk (2008), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Male Friendship, Team Dynamics, Teambuilding, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-06
Updated: 2012-06-06
Packaged: 2017-11-07 02:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/425702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Tony's heard, in many many words, how he would never, ever measure up to Captain America – his father had expressed that fact quite scathingly. And it wasn't lost to him – not that he'd ever admit it, of course – that, of the contrast between them, how much <i>lesser</i> Tony was in comparison.</p>
</blockquote><p>Funnily enough, Steve feels the same way towards Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Heroes

It wasn't so much that he hated the guy. He didn't. Not really. Steve just...frustrated him, that's all.

Tony's heard, in many many words, how he would never, _ever_ measure up to Captain America – his father had expressed that fact quite scathingly. And it wasn't lost to him – not that he'd ever admit it, of course – that, of the contrast between them, how much _lesser_ Tony was in comparison. On the surface, Tony was the best of what modern America had to offer: promiscuity, wealth, excess, technology, all wrapped up in the flashing pizzaz of celebrity lights, and Steve was just a young man in a plaid shirt and leather shoes, dressed in wares far too old for his physical age. But Steve...Steve was the embodiment of American ideals: strength, courage, compassion, hope for the weary and light in the darkness, and Tony was just the embodiment of indulgence, gluttony, self-centered selfishness (boy, had he heard that last one before). It hardly escaped notice that at the center of Steve's blue-spangled spandex was America, and at the center of Tony's suit was Tony himself, in the arc reactor that embodied him, now.

Steve was such an embodiment of the all-American dream, the utterly picturesque hero, that it made Tony sick. The man drank out of a mug emblazoned with the American flag, for fuck's sake. He was the first to berate and lecture on duty and the people and serving and protecting and being sensible, and hey, everyone else was busting their asses too, okay? He managed to pose for pictures without actually posing (seriously, the man had made the turn-away-from-the-camera stance into a magazine trend, he shit you not) and was the national icon of America in every way that one can think of.

Some days Tony wondered if he was real, or just some caricature of American ideals borne to life.

The thing that really, _really_ got to him, as he began to know the captain better, was that Steve _was_ really all those things; Tony has seen him helping little old ladies cross the street and empty his pockets for the closest panhandler and et cetera ad nauseum multiple times, and it wasn't like Tony was with him 24/7. Their rough introduction aside, Steve even had the the slow-to-anger, we're-a-team thing down; Tony needled him to temper a few times (out of scientific curiosity and a shade of spite), but somewhere along the lines _someone_ had told him about Howard and now he was just maddeningly calm and sad and distant whenever Tony fired on him about being, well, old. He was so innately kind and good and self-sacrificing that some days Tony wondered if he was even human. Maybe he was some kind of god like Thor. Humans can't possibly be this _good_ all the _goddamned time_.

All right, Steve Rogers was human, but seriously - prove Tony wrong.

Really.

 

Relations had been strained after the Loki incident. Oh sure, they had been improved by the team-building that came with collectively kicking alien ass, not to mention the common goal of Saving Our Planet on top of Coulson's motivational death. But when the adrenaline and we-don't-do-this,-we'll-all-die-together wore off, the innate friction still remained. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither were Avengers.

Sometime earlier, all the teasing (gentle and not) about his plaid shirts and old-man shoes finally sank in and Steve said he was going to go shopping. Clint and Natasha were away on SHIELD business, Thor was...really not an expert on Earth/Midgardian fashions, and no offense to Bruce but between him and Tony, Tony obviously had a superior fashion sense.

(That, and Bruce was terribly tetchy about going to crowded places in case the other guy broke his dam of self-control. Tony would not force him to admit this, of course.)

Pepper had volunteered Tony to be Steve's guide in the aberration that was a modern shopping mall (Steve's other choice was his selection of SHIELD resocialization agents, which...no). Tony had offered to have Manhattan's finest tailors custom-design a new wardrobe for Steve by 9 am the next day in an attempt to weasel out of it, but Pepper said it was either this or the stockholders' meeting, and Steve adamantly refused to be “living on his charity”, so off to the mall they went.

It could have been worse – Steve was, unsurprisingly, not used to the experience, but his reading and resocialization before the Avengers assembled must have counted for something. He even took fair-trade and lack-of-sweatshops remarkably seriously from a man 70 years out of time. Still, even with his very generous SHIELD salary it was an uphill battle convincing him to shop at somewhere other than Wal-Mart. Tony had been patiently trying to explain the virtues of decent shoes when – surprise! - the building went into lockdown for a bomb threat.

(And this was why Tony Stark did not go to malls. Even without the Iron Man thing he was pretty much a walking target.)

Tony called JARVIS, but the AI delicately suggested that Iron Man flying in heroically with unlocated bombs in the building and a wealth of hostages captured by very determined terrorists was, perhaps, _not_ the heroic thing to do. So Captain America and Iron Man cowered among the baby strollers and fast food stands and waited for the EOD like everyone else, surrounded by people between terrified and rebellious and everything in between.

“Bet you this was all a prank,” the man in front of them informed the pair as the crowd filed through the stairwell, hours later, after the safe evacuation notice. “No bomb at all. No – ”

BOOM.

 

Steve's eyes were slitted and glassy but not closed; the man was clinging onto consciousness by sheer force of will, face white as death. Tony wasn't sure if it'd be easier if Steve just drifted off into unconsciousness. But whatever paltry first aid Coulson had forced onto him reminded him that whatever either of them could do to slow down the shock response, the better. Easier said than done, considering he himself was hardly the picture of health at the moment...

“No sleeping, Rogers,” he gritted out; Steve blinked awake, twitched in his lap. Tony would've kicked him if he had the ability. “Don't fucking _move_ , you idiot.”

JARVIS would do this better; he was always good at yelling calmly. But his phone had fallen out of his pocket sometime during the explosion and was probably buried under the mass of debris and concrete right now.

“...Tony? Tony?” Tony started back at Steve's voice, thin and wheezing, and realized he'd drifted off a little, not Steve.

Steve stared up at him from his position against Tony's legs, very obediently not moving. “...how bad is it?”

 _You? Me? Everyone?_ “Great,” Tony replied with no enthusiasm. Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted a pair of legs sticking out of some rubble. And a woman's purse, hand still attached.

Steve was silent for a moment. “What about you?”

Broken collarbone, maybe a rib, and more bumps and bruises than he cared to count. “Great,” he said again, because he was looking at Steve's arm (broken in at least four places) and blond hair stained red, and he _really_ had no right to complain. Steve had thrown himself on top of him and raised a non-existent shield and gotten hunks of concrete dropped onto his head in return. “Thanks for the save,” and that was quieter.

Steve made a little “mm” sound in the back of his throat, his eyes fluttering closed again, but opened (slowly) before Tony's “hey!” made it out. “I hope...the others made it out.”

Tony wasn't so good at the reassuring platitudes so he kept his mouth shut, eyeing the shadows around Steve and listening for Hulk roars, or excavating equipment, or something.

 _Wait, angry Hulk isn't the patient type..._ Tony decided to not pursue that train of thought.

The silence stretched on a little. The stairway's emergency light (still lit, by some miracle) flickered briefly. Steve's eyes flicked upwards, met his; Steve forced a (wavering, bloody) smile. “We'll be okay.”

How the _hell_ was he so reassuring and heroic when _he_ was the one on the ground in fucking pieces? “I thought that's _my_ line,” Tony shot back, and it wasn't intentional, but Tony couldn't help the pointed glance at Steve's body; one of his legs was still crushed under a hunk of concrete and handrails, and he tried to say it kindly but it all came out wrong: “I'll be fine, but _you_ look half dead.”

“Got the serum,” Steve mumbled, eyes fluttering again; Tony dashed his other hand (the one not holding his collarbone together) across Steve's forehead and felt his stomach sink at the cool clamminess starting to settle in. _Shock. Shit._

“You've also got a concussion, a broken arm, a crushed leg, cracked if not broken ribs, possible organ damage and internal bleeding, and blood everywhere,” Tony pointed out automatically, and _Jesus_ , why couldn't he shut up? One was supposed to _comfort_ trauma victims, not point out all the ways they were bleeding to death. Tony wasn't _good_ at this, okay, and Steve wasn't _helping_ , it would be _helpful_ if Steve seemed to have any concern at all about his numerous near-fatal injuries. Seriously, if there was a god or patron saint for altruism Steve would be first pick.

“...I'm no god,” Steve replied after a pause, and if Tony had long accepted his habit of thinking aloud he could still hate himself for it.

“Some days I wonder,” and there went his mouth again, but what the hell, as long as he kept Steve (and himself) awake instead of dropping off to a void neither could return from. Although strictly speaking it wasn't so altruistic as that, and Tony's long-simmering incredulity and resentment bubbled over, its way paved by years of Howard's heroic stories and _you'll never measure up_ disappointment. “I mean, Christ, Cap - “ he twitched his fingers in a sorry attempt at emphasis, “don't you think of yourself, _for_ yourself, at all?”

There was a sharp, sudden pause, so harsh that even Tony stilled for a moment, _ohshit, went too far_. Then Steve actually chuckled, and Tony winced at the sound - at the bitterness of the expression, the hollowness to his voice. _That_ wasn't from the ribs. “I'm a soldier, Tony. I...” a swallow. “...go where I'm told.”

 _Go where I'm told. Take care of my team. Protect the American people._ Tony _should_ keep his mouth shut – he's obviously stumbled onto a sore spot – but Tony never _could_ keep his mouth shut. Tony could, however, snort, wonder mixed with disbelief as his mouth ran on (because he could drop off any minute, too). “Soldier doesn't equal mindless automaton. Trust me, I've designed enough automatons, and none of them – the good ones anyway – are or were mindless.”

Steve continued as if he hadn't heard him; the blood clotting in his hair quivered, red on gold in the dim light. “I'm a weapon. I was...made for the war. They point, I shoot. I'm not...” His breaths came harsher now, the words tumbling over themselves, bursting out from a broken dam in contrast with his rapidly shortening breaths. “I'm not meant to _be_ here. Just a weapon. A novel... _experiment_ to study.”

Tony _stared_. It had never, ever occurred to him that Steve, with all his smiles and patriotism and fairness and protect-the-people-isms, might not want to be there. “A soldier isn't a life sentence. You're allowed to withdraw, to retire from service. You've done enough.” More than enough. Two lifetime's more than enough.

“And do _what?_ ” Steve glanced over Tony's profile, the shreds of his dress pants, the edges of modern glamour that Tony managed to carry with him despite everything, and there was ragged _envy_ in his eyes. “Take away the costume...the shield. What am I?” His head dropped just a little, before Tony could warn him about not moving. “I don't know how...to do anything else.”

Tony stared, trying to find _something_ to say to _that_ , and Steve took his shock as silent agreement, or something, because he continued, voice brittle and hoarse, “you're smart, Tony; throw you into a situation and you'll...figure something out. You're _better_ , you...you can survive. Thrive, even. I'm...not like that. Then, and now, no one...pays attention to me unless...they need me to fight. I'm only...useful...fighting. And they've...better weapons now anyway.”

There's a tightness in Tony's chest, and he didn't think it was the arc reactor. It took four tries for the loquacious Tony Stark to find something resembling a voice, and even then it was only a croak. “ _That's_ why you're America everything? _That's_ why you're so patriotic it hurts? Because you don't... _know_ how to be anything else?”

“They _made_ me,” he replied, and it was full of shame.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Tony muttered, and he would've facepalmed if he could, breathing outward on a sharp exhale as the enormity, and sheer _idiocy_ , of the whole thing hit him, igniting such utter rage that Tony briefly thought the world shaded green. Tony had no real love for the government, but this – there was a _line_ , goddamn it, and they were so far, _so fucking far_ , over that _goddamn fucking line_ they were in outer space by now.

He twitched his fingers over Steve's shoulder, and the white tips of his fingers sure wasn't from his grip, but all the same.

“Jesus _Christ_. Steve. _Steve_ ,” he repeated, Steve you _idiot_ , and before Steve could answer he barrelled on right over him, spitting out the words with a savage fury, “You fucking listen to me. You are not a thing. You are not a fucking _weapon_ , or useful, or an – an _experiment_.” He practically snarled the last word, and dimly he realized that Steve was, in his own way, as persecuted and used as Bruce was, and as much of a science experiment, and somehow people – at least, people worth knowing, which admittedly excluded most of the human race right there - recognized Bruce's plight but not Steve's. “I can't believe – they didn't – fucking _hell_ , Steve. They didn't _make_ you. You don't _belong_ to them. You don't have to be America for anyone, y'hear me? You're a _person_. You're my _friend_.” He hadn't realized he considered Steve as such, but knew he did as he said it. “ You can want things for yourself. Things that have _nothing_ to do with _goddamned America_. You just have to _be_.”

And Steve Rogers, Captain America himself, was staring at Tony like he's never seen him before, and Tony's mind had gone white and his mouth ran on before he realized he was speaking: “I swear, I swear, once we get out of this – if anyone, _anyone_ , jabs you with needles or uses you for tests or anything that you don't fucking want to do, I swear, I'll – ” kill them, maybe, or break them, or use them for spare parts, or –

He didn't finish his promise/threat either way, and it didn't really matter, Steve was slowly stilling, his face strangely rigid and blank under the blood, concussed, uneven gaze staring hard at Tony like he'd never seen him before (and no, perhaps they never really did) until Steve's eyes finally rolled back into his head and he fell unconscious.

The Hulk, the paramedics, and the remainder of the excavation team found the pair a little later, Tony's hand still on Steve's shoulder.

 

Tony stood outside of the emergency ward much later, his arm splinted and in a sling and all of him banadaged to high hell, and waited.

About sixteen different people had tried to take him back to Stark Tower and he'd waved every single of them away, some politely, others...not so much. He had Pepper bring him another phone, and he was already pulling up the file on Captain America, reading over the things he missed, the details between the lines. When he got to the parts about 'immune to drug intoxication' and 'increased resistance to hypnosis than the average human adult' and '872% more resistant to poisons than the average human adult' he didn't wonder how the American government had reached those conclusions. He could well figure it out, just like he heard the ragged screams from the surgery room as the medical staff _figured out_ , from real life trial and error, that anesthesia didn't work too well on Captain America.

Tony swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe, and he clenched his good fist until the nails drew blood from his palm.

Beside him, Bruce carried the vigil in equally white-knuckled silence, familiar ghosts and haunted understanding flitting across his exhausted, wrung-out face.

 

Tony walked into the hospital room with a lot more trepidation than he did his previous visits. Fifth visit in as many days. This time, Bruce had offered to come along with him, but Tony turned him down – this was his idea, so it was on him.

A bright, cheerful smile, pasted on. “Hey, Steve.” Not Captain – never Captain, never again – but, just...Steve. “How ya feeling?”

The captain in question stirred from his seated light doze and glanced up, eyebrows raising in acknowledgement and a smile quirking his mouth. He wasn't allowed much movement: his neck was still held by a collar, his arm and leg in casts, and his chart had listed a rather alarming amount of details that Tony didn't want to think about. Even while heartened at Steve's response, Tony couldn't help but notice that despite Steve's size, it was amazing how frail he could look, under hospital lights.

“Better,” was Steve's light reply, and he knew that was a lie. Steve healed fast – it was the serum, of course. That serum had gotten Steve through more scrapes than could be counted, and Fury had told him if it wasn't for the serum slowing down the shock response and massively improving his survivability Steve would've been dead already. But it still took seven surgeries to knit him back together, and while the prognosis was a full recovery, in the meanwhile – painkillers didn't exactly _work_ on Steve, either. Tony was surprised that he wasn't howling in agony or curled up in a ball whimpering; he sure would be in his shoes.

But then again, that's _why_ Steve was Captain America, national icon and patron saint of altruism and courage and compassion, and Tony _wasn't_.

“Brought you food,” Tony said brightly. “Because hospital food is awful, even SHIELD-sanctioned hospitals, and I'm sure you want something decent.” He hefted several alarmingly large takeout bags, and couldn't help the smile at the way Steve's eyes lit up.

They passed the time with inane chatter, separated by awkward silences as they shared the takeout and the chocolate Bruce had dropped off earlier and admired the heaping amounts of flowers and teddy bears and get-well-soon cards from everyone. It was amazing, really, how camaraderie grew after shared near-death experiences. Also, you-saved-my-life experiences. Of course, they made a point to _avoid_ talking about said experiences, but it united them all the same. Maybe they should all get nearly-killed a few more times to properly build the Avengers Initiative.

But eventually Tony noticed the careful, curious glances Steve kept giving him, and he ruefully decided that he wasn't quite as good at lying as he thought – either that, or this time it mattered too fucking much to care about his poker face. He put down his chopsticks and bit his lip, trying to figure out the best way to broach this.

“I had a chat with Fury,” he finally said, carefully.

Steve stilled in his one-handed consumption of his sushi. “...About?”

Tony dug around in his suit jacket with his good hand and fished out a pile of papers, crumpled and haphazardly stowed in a pocket, and awkwardly smoothed them out on one thigh. Steve was looking at him curiously, eyebrow raised, and Tony was suddenly very interested in the lint on Steve's blankets.

“What are they?” Steve finally asked. The air turned heavy and cloying around them.

Tony swallowed. “I...had a chat with Fury,” he repeated again. The pauses in between the words, more than even the tone, indicated that it had not been a very pleasant chat. “About...the things you mentioned in the stairwell.”

Steve's back went rigid, his face utterly blank. His blue eyes darted down to the crinkled mass of papers still on Tony's thigh. He didn't say a word. A muscle in his cheek twitched, once, twice.

Tony paused, weighing out his words, but it wasn't as if he could take it back now. With a final squaring of his shoulders he pushed the bundle into Steve's lap. “They're, um. Discharge papers. Captain.” It would be the last time Tony called him Captain, regardless. Tony's dark eyes searched Steve's blue ones, the latter closed like shutters. “...if you want them.”

It was several heartbeats later before Steve moved. His movements uncharacteristically jerky and stiff, Steve reached out for the paper bundle with his good hand, unfolded them, read through each one, stopping at the signatures at the bottom. He swallowed hard, once, twice, folded them again carefully (much more neatly than Tony's attempts)...then resolutely pushed them away, scattering the heap onto the hospital room floor. “No.”

Tony stared at him, and he wasn't sure what was running across his face just then, but there was definitely surprise, and incredulity, and... _relief_. “No?”

“No,” Steve repeated, and his eyes were downcast, and he suddenly seemed to have lost a few inches, slouching into his seat.

There was a long, heavy silence and Tony watched Steve's face, and Steve struggled to put his thoughts into words, to explain, his hand clenching and unclenching his blanket. Finally he glanced up again at Tony, and his eyes were pained and pleading.

“I...appreciate the thought, Tony. The effort. I imagine...these signatures weren't easy to get.” They hadn't been, no, but Tony didn't care. Steve went on, “and...I know what I said, back there. I meant it, meant every word. But...

“But...this is what I _do_ , this is what I know _how_ to do. And yeah,” he raised one hand, “I know, I know what I said...and yeah, in some ways they're using me, but...

“But I'm using _them_ too.” The blue gaze was raw, earnest now. “I mean, serum or no, I'm just one guy, and not even that superpowered a guy by, y'know, everyone's standards. And I can't do half the things I've done, or any of the things I _want_ to do, without transport, without backup, without government sanction and support from...my team.” He offered Tony a small, wan smile. “They... _made_ me, yes, and I guess they need me in some way, but...I need them too, y'know? I need them, and everyone, so I can...make a difference.”

“ _Keep_ making a difference,” Tony corrected, and Steve flushed. Tony laughed, at least tried to, and it came out more like a sigh. A long pause, then: “You're sure about this?”

“Yeah.” And _that_ came out ironclad, and in that moment, Tony had never been more proud to serve under this particular captain. Steve didn't actually say it, but Tony read it in his eyes, _This is what I do._

“Okay.” Tony shook his head, protest chasing acceptance, but it wasn't like Steve hadn't had time to think about this. He opened his mouth, closed it again, wanted to ask, _Is that why you're always on the front lines, taking the hits for everyone?_

Yeah, Steve did that because he was protective of them, because these were his people, the closest thing he had to a team or family now. 70 years out of time, and he'd defend them with his life because he wanted to, because he thought it's the right thing to do – because he didn't know what _else_ he could do to protect them.

What else does a weapon do, but fight?

But fighting took many forms, and it's _why_ one fought that really mattered, in the end.

“I could do without the prodding though,” Steve admitted wryly, after a moment's thought.

Tony looked up from collecting the papers one-handedly off the floor, and he was smiling, but there was a jagged edge in the smile, the promise of blood. “I meant what I said too, back there, Steve,” he replied, quietly.

Steve. Not Captain, never Captain, never again – because he was more, so much _more_ , than just a soldier or a rank.

Steve made a remarkable approximation of a nod, for a man who couldn't move his neck.

There was a long, much-more companionable silence, where Steve fidgeted with the lint on his blanket and Tony crammed the already-crumpled papers back into his jacket pocket. Tony then stood up, attempting to stretch (one sided), and winced. “Guess Barton was right about the old-man thing,” he commented idly, to fill up the silence.

Steve looked thoughtful, and like he was biting back a smile, and then looked like he was about to say something, then stopped; Tony cocked an eyebrow at him and Steve chuckled bashfully back. “I was just thinking...your suit gives you your strength and weapons and all, but, um, I guess you can get caught without it sometimes, and, er, I...” The tips of his ears flushed pink in a rather adorable way as Steve blurted, “what I mean is, would you like me to teach you how to spar?”

Tony blinked, considering, then shrugged. “Yeah, why not? I mean, repulsor jets and thrusters are great and all, but I'm still carrying that suit, and that thing is damned _heavy_. Pepper's already after me about doing more exercise – you'd think saving the world would be exercise, but nope, that's all the suit, she says...” He shrugged one shoulder again in his lazy, magnanimous manner. “Tell ya what, I'll trade ya – take you out shopping again when you're out of that bed. You lost all your packages.”

He'd never admit it, but the way Steve's eyes crinkled in laughter made him feel...really warm inside, like he actually did deserve to walk alongside the national icon and almost (not quite) measured up, despite Howard's assessment. It made him feel...a little more heroic, in a way saving the world never did.

Waving a lazy salute with the wrong hand, Tony headed out, paused.

“Steve?” he said, halfway out the door, as if he remembered something. Steve glanced over, and Tony looked straight at him, all-seriousness in a way that people rarely saw of Tony Stark. “They didn't make you. You were Captain America long before the Serum.”

Steve blinked, paused, took in the enormity of that statement...and then, then, Tony thought he could power New York through a year of blackouts with the wattage of Steve's answering smile.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You're a good man, Tony.”

That, coming from _Captain fucking America_ , was...high praise indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Because I wanted to demonstrate that the Serum totally changed Steve's life, for the better and worse. Also, the cracks they made at each other ("big man in a suit of armour" vs. " everything that's special about you came out of a bottle.") went right to the jugular for both of them.
> 
> Two possible sequel ideas... Steve & Tony sparring training, and some sort of Bruce/Steve thing. Maybe both combined into one.


End file.
